I remind myself that I’ve endured worse treatment and immediately regret the thought as I’m assaulted with unwanted memories. Being on a routine patrol in the mercenary army. The ambush. Being held captive by the Hematites. Spending days in darkness, blindfolded, but never alone. Desperately hungry and thirsty, bound, dirty, and afraid no one would come to rescue me.
A shudder ripples through me as I squeeze my fingers together. As time passed, I thought the memories would fade into the far crevices of my mind, and they did for a while. Being imprisoned by the Bloodstone people has brought them back.
I’m forced back to the present as the barbarians lead me outside and down the scorched streets of Astarobane. Crumbling cottages sit beside the charred remains of shops. Black tree trunks mark the ground where life once existed proudly. Beautiful olive trees used to grow here. Now, there’s only nothingness, emptiness, reminders of what the invaders from the Malachite tribe did to Astarobane over three weeks ago.
I gulp in a quick breath when my guards lead me to the square, where I have witnessed the Bloodstone murdering their prisoners. Hector stands next to Luc in the center of the clearing with about fifty Bloodstone warriors, each wearing gray surcoats over mail and leather armor.
The Bloodstone have placed Malachi on a raised platform—displaying their condemned like a trophy. My stomach clenches as I take in Malachi’s proud stance. His body is beaten, but his spirit is not.
Save him!
Desperation fuels me as I lurch forward. My guards tighten their grip on my arms, keeping me still.
Sadness floods my veins as I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. There’s nothing I could say that would change any of this.
Luc speaks, his voice callous and unforgiving. “Who has a grievance with this Kyanite?”
“I do,” Hector says, his words carrying over the sound of my pulse roaring in my ears.
I dig my fingernails into my left palm, sinking pain into my skin as I lift my focus to the cloudless sky.
I beg you, Olah.
Don’t let this happen.
“May the gods forgive him. For we do not,” Luc says.
Instead of a bow and arrow, as is typical in Bloodstone executions, Hector pulls a single throwing knife from his cloak. Spidery fingers of horror wrap around my throat and squeeze.
This is more than an execution. This is revenge. Hector’s revenge against me, and what I did to him. And since he’s unwilling to sacrifice me before he gets what he wants, he uses Malachi as his target.
It’s cruel. Oh, so very cruel.
Hector could give Malachi a private death. Instead, he forces me to stand here and watch. Forces me to face this side of him.
“Pleasedon’t do this.” The words wrench from me in a plea I cannot contain. “Please!”
Hector winces, as if my words have struck him. He hesitates for a moment, the weapon still clutched in his hand. Then he steels himself, his expression hardening. He takes a step forward, his body tense with determination as he raises the knife.
Sorrow threads through me as I gulp in cool air and close my eyes, refusing to watch Hector murder Malachi—the man I once thought of forever with. The man who comforted me after Mother’s death. Malachi was my escape in a world where I didn’t have many friends. There was only him and a few women who worked at Father’s brothel.
A crisp wind nips at my cheeks as I force my eyes open and take in Malachi’s limp body. Blood stains the front of his surcoat, but it’s that throwing knife that sears my vision. The blade lodges deep within his chest.
It is more than steel. It is a symbol of Hector’s vengeance, his anger, his inability to forgive me. Not that he has given me a chance to ask for it.
Open your eyes, Mal!
Please open your eyes.
Malachi doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t hear my silent pleas. He hears nothing. Sees nothing. Dreams of nothing.
Hector stole that from him.
Anger blinds me as Hector turns from the square and walks away, his shoulders straight, his chin lifted. I glare with all my hurt, my need to slam my fists into his chest, to make him look at me. Really look.
With every step he takes, my fury grows. Fire scorches my tongue with the urge to scream at him. To make him understand why I am so mad. Why his indifference hurts so much.
But I cannot speak. All I can do is stare, my fists clenched, my heart pounding in my chest.
